


Stronger By Far

by Kaz_Langston



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Violence, Protective Crowley, Soft Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-22 19:29:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19980493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaz_Langston/pseuds/Kaz_Langston
Summary: A captured angel. They know hell is watching.It's lucky Aziraphale is the forgiving sort.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Annabel Lee by Edgar Allan Poe

It was an unexpected ring of the doorbell that dragged Crowley from his task, and he stomped his way to the door. Waiting there and peering up through the camera with poorly disguised impatience was a tall and pasty man, ugly, with hollow eyes and sparse grey hair. His suit was ill-fitting and had peculiar staining down one lapel. He looked rather like a used car salesman the morning after the night before, if the night before had involved triple distilled absinthe and a Ouija board.

The smell of brimstone, evidence of a recent rising, was already permeating the entrance to the flat. Crowley threw open the door, enthusiastic and effusive, though he knew the smell would take hours to dissipate. "Mullin! What brings you to the surface?"

Lounging on the doorframe, one foot kicked leisurely out to block a little more of the doorway, Crowley was just warm enough to be polite, but not so friendly that the unpleasant and unexpected visitor would actually feel invited. Demons aren’t quite like vampires - they can of course cross thresholds, and only succubi have any dislike of garlic - but they don’t tend to barge in on each other without permission or a very good reason, as minor overreactions involving hellfire can be messy for all involved. 

"Some fool sorcerer summoned me." Mullin bared his teeth, sharp and stained. His breath held the rich, sweet stench of decay. "I ate him, and his woman too. And then I thought, since I'm up here, I'd come round for a visit. My master heard a rumour…"

Crowley grinned widely, wolfishly. "You want to see my angel. Come in." 

They settled in Crowley's throne room, such as it was, Crowley lounging in his chair and the visitor in something plasticky and far less comfortable. It was, in fact, designed to deter people from staying too long, while also being a hideously expensive piece of furniture. Very little in the room encouraged guests to linger. 

Crowley threw his head back and bellowed to the room at large, "Angel, get in here! We have a guest." 

There was the soft padding of feet, hurrying down the corridor towards them. Mullin leaned forward eagerly, grubby nails lengthening and eyes darkening to black.

The angel entered and the demon gaped, sending a fresh wave of carrion-breath through the room. He hadn't quite believed it possible, but here... Subdued, perhaps, but certainly the angel he'd been told about. Replete with heavenly wisdom but foolish - stupid,  _ gullible  _ \- enough to be captured by a cunning demon in the right place at the right time. No wonder Crowley had earned all those commendations; clearly he was a force to be reckoned with.

He was clad in long white robes, an unadorned version of the traditional angelic garb; he was barefoot, and the curling of his toes suggested that the floor was cooler than comfortable. A black leather collar sat tight around his neck, contrasting with the washed out colors of his light skin and shock of blonde hair. The delicate skin had been rubbed pink by the raw leather edges of the collar, twin lines encircling his throat as though rope had been drawn around it at speed. 

The angel stood close to the desk, eyes downcast, hands gripping each other behind his back. At Crowley's command, he dropped gently to his knees, tucking his feet neatly below his robes and resting his hands on soft thighs. His back was straight and regal, though he kept his head bowed; gentle huffs of breath lifted his chest and a pulse thrummed a rapid pace just below the collar. Although he had been nothing but passive and obedient, there was something in the set of his jaw or perhaps the tension in his forearms that spoke of power, restrained enough but dormant, not dead. 

The visiting demon stared at him for a long moment, drinking in the expanse of pale skin with greedy eyes. He looked askance at Crowley who gestured expansively. "Go ahead, take a closer look." 

Rising from the unwelcoming chair, the demon prowled a wide circle around the kneeling angel, inspecting him from head to hidden feet. Broad shoulders tightened as he receded out of view, but he didn't turn his head. 

Leaning in to the base of the angel's neck, just where the white curls gave way to red-lined skin, Mullin inhaled deeply then spluttered and spat on the floor. "Disgusting." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 

Crowley could perhaps had said the same thing, but instead vanished the mess without a word.

Finishing his initial circuit, Mullin curled a stubby, clawed hand around the angel’s stubborn jaw, tilting it up to inspect him critically, turning his head this way and that before letting go dismissively. "Doesn't look like much."

"Don't be fooled. He's a Principality, too, not just your standard messenger. It's the collar keeping him quiet. All sorts of clever things carved into that." Crowley unfolded from the chair to run a hand possessively through the delicate curls. "And watch this."

He bent down and whispered in the angel's ear, and the kneeling man shuddered. Crowley twisted his hand in the pale hair until pain tightened the angel's face, and he hissed something else. The angel blinked slowly in acquiesence and closed his eyes. The air in the room rippled, and then there were wings spread, twenty feet from wingtip to golden wingtip.

The visitor leapt back, before laughing and stepping in close. He reached out one clawed hand to stroke at the beautifully groomed pearly feathers and scratch sharply at the skin beneath to make the angel squirm, the wing fluttering as he twitched. "I don't know how you did this but I'm  _ impressed _ , Crowley." 

Without a change in his expression he tightened his grip on a secondary feather and yanked. 

The angel cried out, flinching away, and Crowley snarled as the demon triumphantly held up his prize, a spot of blood trickling from the end. 

"He's  _ mine _ and you don't get to damage him!” The room was suddenly tense, both demons flaring as the angel’s frightened eyes flickered from one to the other, wounded wing held defensively back behind him. 

Mullin snorted. "What, you never knock him around a bit?" He licked the end of the feather in a foul and bloodied imitation of seduction, glance moving from Crowley to the angel at their feet.

The angry tension diffused suddenly. "Of course - but I hate when his wings are scruffy."

The angel's pale eyes flickered to his master, something pleading in them. Crowley shook his head. "Look, you've made him forget his manners." He nonchalantly backhanded the kneeling angel, enough demonic strength behind it to knock him to the ground with a yelp. 

The angel sprawled motionless for a moment, face pressed to the floor, before shaking his head and hauling himself back into his kneeling position. A trickle of blood ran from a split on his cheekbone but he didn't make a move to wipe it away. Eyes down, still. Always, always down, even as they filled with tears.

Crowley looked away from the struggling angel, leaning back against the desk. "Seen enough?"

"Oh yes." Mullin paused. "No trouble from… upstairs?"

He sneered contemptuously. "Fuck all. Seems like any angel silly enough to get caught by a demon is on their own. Or maybe they just don't like this one."

The angel blinked at that, an overflowing tear trickling down his rapidly bruising cheek to drip a dark blemish on his white robe.

"Let me walk you out." Crowley gestured broadly towards the door, trading gossip and rumours as though they were old friends. As much as demons could be friends, anyway - no active conflict between them or their allies, no reason to kill each other right now. Tomorrow would be another day.

Crowley shut the door behind the other demon, breathing a sigh of relief.


	2. Chapter Two

_Crowley shut the door behind the other demon, breathing a sigh of relief._

He gave himself a moment to lean heavily against the closed door and take a few deep breaths, eyes closed. The undesired adrenaline - too long on Earth, too human - had his pulse stuttering as he hurried back to his study.

The angel still knelt, hands now clutching his thighs instead of resting gracefully, and both cheeks were wet. The angry mark on his right cheekbone was dark and spreading rapidly up towards his eye, and his wings draped woefully on the floor. The missing feather was marked with a tiny red spatter, rapidly drying. 

Crowley threw his sunglasses carelessly on the desk as he passed and knelt down in front of the pale angel, hands stroking down his arms and his unblemished cheek. "He’s gone, he’s gone. Oh Aziraphale, I'm so sorry."

Tense hands unclenched and blue eyes looked up into yellow. Aziraphale shook his head, breath coming in shallow gasps. “It's ok, just please- please get this off me. I can’t-”

Crowley’s hands shook as he ran a careful finger around the base of the collar, an effort of demonic power all it took him to release the power in it. He unfastened the buckle too, then flung the distasteful thing across the room. 

Angelic aura blazed bright, released from its prison, and the tension left Aziraphale's shoulders with a heartfelt groan, ethereal power flowing comfortably back through his limbs. His wings flared and ruffled a little before settling neatly. “Oh! Thank you, my dear. That’s much better.” He turned a weak smile on the demon before bringing his hands up to scrub his face, only to yelp as he pressed the darkened cheekbone. 

Shaking his head, Crowley reached out one wide, trembling hand. 

"Here. Let me." 

Long delicate fingers barely touched the weal they had put there. In an instant it was shrunk down to nothing, and Crowley snatched his hand back to cradle the cruel thing against his chest. 

The angel gave him an open, grateful smile, then pulled out a handkerchief from nowhere and dabbed delicately at the tears still stubbornly clinging to his cheeks. “I think that went quite well, don’t you?” Red-rimmed eyes crinkled up at him.

Crowley stared at him in silence for a long moment. “You’re mad, angel.”

“Well, he’s got a nice story to take back about the heartless demon lording it over the silly little angel, and we get a few years of peace from both sides.” Something occurred to him then and he added bitterly, “And he’s got one of my feathers to show off!” He twisted to inspect the wounded wing, and the long primaries brushed carelessly past Crowley’s face. He resisted the urge to reach out and stroke them; it felt a little insensitive.

The dried blood was vanished quickly, but the gap remained. “Oh, just look at it! And you’ve taken such good care of my wings,” Aziraphale said mournfully, trying unsuccessfully to tug other feathers over the deficit. 

“It’ll grow back, love.” 

There was a string of incoherent unhappy noises before the angel gathered up his robes to stand, wings folding neatly away into nothing. Crowley jumped up and scuttled back out of the way, before realising that his help might be needed and swaying forward indecisively. 

Aziraphale, it seemed, was distracted enough to not notice. “I think I’ve rather become accustomed to trousers, this outfit is awfully drafty. And no style at all, I don’t know what we were thinking.” He brushed at the knees, although no dust had had the temerity to settle there. "I think it's time for a nice cup of tea, don't you?"

He bustled off, none the worse for wear, leaving Crowley silent and open mouthed. 

*-*-*-*-*-*

A few biscuits and a change of clothes later, Aziraphale was back at his books, lounging in a comfortable armchair that had been well hidden from their visitor. The lines from the collar had vanished along with the robes, but he'd not brushed his hair so it still stuck up in awkward tufts where Crowley had grabbed it. _Grabbed and twisted and hurt-_

Crowley sidled into the room, watching carefully from the doorway. He'd left the study in a hurry and hadn't wanted to return and confronted by the ugly collar just to collect his sunglasses, so his face was unshielded. Dark pupils were narrowed to slits.

"You're ok that I hit you?" 

Aziraphale looked blankly up at him, still half immersed in his book, before settling on a reassuring smile. "Of course! I rather think it added an edge to the whole thing. Your friend certainly found it convincing. And anyway, you've done it before."

"Not in centuries! I thought we were past all that messy hands-on stuff." Crowley's expression was stricken and miserable as he skulked against the wall.

 _Oh_. Something clicked then, and Aziraphale put down his book. His face was open and sympathetic and kind, and Crowley suddenly couldn't bear to look at him. "Crowley. I'm sorry. It can't have been easy for you."

Mulish, Crowley tried to respond with something cutting but found himself mute, words dying in his throat. Instead he shook his head and shoved his hands as deep into the pockets of his tight jeans as he could manage, scowling at the floor.

Aziraphale approached, unrelenting, while Crowley's eyes skittered away, refusing to settle. Pale hands reached out to coax others out of pockets; when he wouldn't relinquish them Aziraphale wrapped warm fingers around his wrists instead.

"You did the right thing, I promise. I'm not hurt, you're not hurt, we have some peace and quiet." He stretched up on his tiptoes to place a kiss on that furrowed brow, but the creases remained.

Something more potent, then. He held the skinny wrists tight and tipped his head to try and catch Crowley's low gaze. Heavenly power weighting his words, Aziraphale spoke solemnly. "I forgive you your sins, Crowley." 

That bought him a heavy sigh and, finally, eye contact. One hand slithered out of a pocket to entwine their fingers. He couldn't resist adding cheekily, "Today's sins, anyway. I know what you did to that gentleman who tried to steal from my cash register."

If there were a few more miracles than temptations in the ledger that month, neither of them mentioned it.


End file.
